Archive for the ‘Poetry Collective’ Category

1978-07-04

Tuesday, July 4th, 1978

 
  Paused for a moment on the edge of all the future
     all our lives will surely tangle or unweave now
     and all of these potentials,
     like hands on my shoulder, steady me.
  So let it begin and all the rest of my life go on
     I no longer wait or care for the past to resurrect itself
     this life can be invested in my future now
  I can weave and sort my friends and lovers into the days of my life
     I want to walk out each day excited
     about what could happen again
     and care nothing for what has gone by
  I've been too long tangled with the old ways
     so carefully unknotting our lives and feelings
     learning that exquisite patience that lies half way
     between compassion and self preservation
  But, its done... let me depart and begin anew
     this time not to bury my freedom with love and security
     or to hold myself untouched by love's whip and passion
  I want to find that balance point there in my heart, between...
     there, where on the edge of my best,
     I can live each day like it was the last
  I want to dance to life's mysteries and paradoxes
     as the fountains dance to the wind and the mimes to the crowd
     these things are not to weep for
  and, sometimes ... in those graceful but oh so brief moments,
     perhaps in a lover's eyes or in a passage of my son's growth
     I'll see something behind it all ...
     timeless ... smiling thru at me
  Brother Methuselah, here in all of us as we gamble our lives
     untouched yet compassionate ... he waits for us to begin
     and he smiles at us, a spiritual joy and promise within.

 
                                 gallagher

 
                                 07-04-78

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

1978-10-26

Thursday, October 26th, 1978
      She never touched me, though she came to play
         she's never loved me no matter what I've heard her say
      she's just like me in so many ways
         she's a rogue.
      Our eyes and touch press ... skin to skin
         we talk of 'real', rejoice within
      but wait like cats to pounce and win
         neither lies but we love to sin.
      A wastrel's dream this love so thin
         where bodies press and egos win
      the coward's risk stops at the skin
         and though we share ourselves we're not akin
      "Have a nice day...", "I love your hands...",
         "I care for you...", "My freedom demands...",
      "I live confused...", "I want to win."
         why do we press so hard to feel so thin?
      The dance unwinds, we learn our ways
         the passion flares ... smoke, winds blow away
      another meeting, warm clay to clay
         it feels so wrong, hasn't love more to say?
                              gallagher
                              10-26-78 - about kathy a.
                              long beach

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —

1983-01-12 On Sophies choice

Wednesday, January 12th, 1983
                        On Sophie's choice
         Let me look ... let the light freeze just there
            on these love worn hands and new grayed hair
         softly now ... go and see your child
            go and look ... with your eyes that can feel and smile
         That your children, so loved, can die ... its unbelievable
            their small coats still buttoned up.
         And your wife, with her warmth at night
            and all those photograph albums shared
               and the cups she's dried with care
                  and the small wrinkles that seem to run
                     where once was young and fair.
         Go, my friend, and walk the house and touch the wood
            and sit among it ... your midnight kin
         and let the walls come round you ... and the moments wait
            while you think how frail, ...how frail is this love
         That a child, you've dressed for school can die,
            a bullet's glove, on a concrete step.
         And that the woman who's shared all those years
            can become just a statistic 
               in some foreigner's newspaper
         Some day these all, the child, warm wife, and wood
            could be torn from your page of life
         and your cups go broken ... and their skin grow cold
            while pitiless politicians
               vie for their intangible goods....
                                    Gallagher
                                    12 January 1983
                                       Dallas, TX
 

— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —